Originally written for the 2002 Association of Christian Schools International (ACSI) Writing Contest, but rejected for submission.
I was four years old when the war began. My mother tried her best to shield its horrors from me, but I still heard of it, for my friend Hilas was a squire to Lilas, the lead general of the wood-elf army. Two years into the war, at the Battle of Elleinad, the trolls won. As a result, they captured several young elves, including me, and took them back to their kingdom as captives. We were brought before Hardheart, the King of the trolls, who would decide our destinies. To even be in his presence was like sacrilege to an elf. He is ugly, cruel, and smells horrible. His wife, Queen Heartymouth, is five times uglier than he is, and at least she does not let off pestilential odors. The Troll Queen is talkative, inconsiderate, and dull. She makes a mockery of our language, to say the least.
Our captive group, consisting of four male elves and four female elves (including me) was sent to prison, where the trolls would keep us until they decided what to do with us or were forced to release us. Since the trolls are such dim-witted creatures, it can take them a quarter of a century to make a major decision such as this. At the very best, we would tire of our immortality if it was to be spent entirely in prison, and attempt some form of either suicide or a mortalizing ritual, so that we could escape our certain fates. At worst, we would be sold as slaves or killed, whichever Hardheart deemed the better of the two evils.
Personally, being in a troll prison was worse than anything I could ever imagine. The trolls seemed to like strong, acrid odors, because even their prisons had this vice. Such air is not pleasant for a six-year-old, mortal or immortal.
I will not discuss a typical day at the prison, because all I will do is complain. Our guards were three dim-witted, ugly trolls by the names of Awfulfoot, Roughfoot, and Rollingear respectively.
This life dragged on, as did the elf-troll war.
